


Say It With Flowers

by Starlightify



Series: repairing the world [11]
Category: DCU
Genre: Allergies, Autism, Disabled Character, F/M, Gen, Humor, Jewish Character, Language of Flowers, M/M, Multi, Snark, Trans Character, neurodivergent character, superman is good with kids, this is not a cheating fic do not be alarmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlightify/pseuds/Starlightify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark has learned a lot of things in the course of his career as Superman. Including that it's possible to send someone a passive-aggressive 'fuck off' in flower language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say It With Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earth_arrangement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earth_arrangement/gifts).



> earth_arrangement requested "Weird Antagonistic Superfriends," which somehow became "Weird Antagonistic Superfriends with Flower Language."
> 
> At this point in time, Bruce and Clark know each other's secret identities, and are not exactly friends. Lois also knows Bruce is Batman, as per the Superman: The Animated Series episode "World's Finest". She does not (yet) know Clark is Superman. Clark does not know Lois knows Bruce is Batman. Lois and Bruce were fuckbuddies while he was in Metropolis, and have remained on pretty good terms. No one's really dating anyone else, but Clark is making heart eyes at both Lois and Bruce, because he is a gay little baby. It's a mess.
> 
> Clark's sensory issues are both a result of super-senses and of being on the autism spectrum. Yay neurodiverse superheroes!
> 
> Also, it doesn't come up in the fic proper, but per 'repairing the world' canon, Clark, the Kents, Bruce, and Lois are all trans.
> 
> This fic is mostly focused on emotions, snark, and weird bouquets, but I do want to warn people that there are also some non-graphic depictions of gun violence and harm to children in the latter half of the fic. If you'd like a more specific description of what happens so you can know whether this fic is for you, feel free to send a message.
> 
> All of the flower language depicted in this fic is correct, as far as I can ascertain through googling "flower language." I am not a floriographer. Do not put too much stock in my floral knowledge.
> 
> Tons of love to my partners, who are the best beta readers anyone could ever ask for.

Bruce told Clark to stay out of Gotham, which Clark thinks is a little hypocritical, considering that Bruce was in Metropolis when he said it. But still, he tries to respect Bruce’s request – their methods may differ, but Bruce is still doing good, not to mention that he has much better knowledge of all the intricacies of crime in Gotham and clearly has plan upon plan upon plan in place. Request to stay out of Gotham aside, Clark’s worried that if he did go after anyone in Gotham, he’d crash through a half-dozen of Bruce’s plans like a bear through spiderwebs and make even worse things happen.

Nope. Better to keep his base of operations in Metropolis and go help in areas of the world that were lacking well-informed vigilante mammal men.

But then there’s an explosion on an oil tanker a few miles from the Gotham docks, and gallons of crude oil are pouring into the waters, and between the rubble and the mob hits Clark’s sure that Gotham’s waters really don’t need any more contaminants. He’s in costume, out the window, and breaking the sound barrier in ten seconds flat.

Bruce’s request, Clark thinks, was meant to keep Superman from trying to compete or interfere with Batman. He is not competing or interfering with Batman. Batman fights criminals and rescues kidnapping victims and crouches ominously on rooftops. And even if Bruce wants to get involved, unless he's invented a Bat oil skimmer, cleaning up ecological disasters is more a WayneTech thing than a Batman thing. Clark is just helping out a little. Not competing. He spots the oil tanker and dives.

The fires from the explosion doesn’t seem to have reached the oil yet, and Clark puts them out carefully, not wanting to blow a stray spark into the oil in the water. That will make it much harder for the rescue ships approaching the tanker to do their job. Once the fires are out, he jumps over the side of the ship and ew ew _ew_ the sensation of crude oil sliming across his skin and into his suit has got to be on his top ten of Worst Sensory Experiences Ever. The stuff smells horrible, too. He’s been holding his breath since he put the fires out and there’s still an acrid taste in the back of his throat. Clark swims deeper, searching for the source of the oil.

The breach in the tanker’s hull is oddly clean. It doesn’t look like it was caused by an explosion, it looks like it was caused by... well, almost like it was caused by a blade. That’s ridiculous, but Clark begins scanning the area around him, because if there’s one thing the kinds of people who tangle with superheroes have in common, it’s that they’re ridiculous.

There’s something in the water that looks like a submarine, if submarines were based on nightmarish parodies of sharks. It has a sharp-looking dorsal fin – probably what made the breach – and is shaped like a dart, with a pointy nose and long fins on the back. The sharkmarine is also circling back around and, yep, headed right for him. Great.

Clark swims to tanker and pinches the edges of the breach to cut off the flow of oil before welding it shut with heat vision. Then he goes after the sharkmarine.

Weird as it looks, it was clearly designed to be fully aquatic, so if he can get it out of the water…

He dives, comes up underneath it, and keeps going. He aims for a spot on the surface free of both oil and rescue ships and shoots out of the water carrying the sharkmarine. The people inside it have transitioned from confused exclamations to full-on screaming, so he’d really like to put them down somewhere as soon as possible. Clark heads for the docks. He doesn’t know where the nearest police station is, but given the explosion, there have got to be a few officers nearby.

The sharkmarine makes a satisfying crunching noise when he lobs it a few feet down onto the street. The people inside are disoriented and may sport a few minor bruises, but are otherwise unharmed. There are two of them, dressed in diving suits and carrying guns. Preparation for a couple of different situations. Clark guesses he wasn’t one of them.

“That’s motherfucking Superman!” one of them yells before Clark peels the sharkmarine open like a tin can and ties the occupants together with heavy rope from down the docks.

“No, just Superman,” Clark says cheerfully, crushing their guns into wads of metal. He scans the area for police, and is surprised to find none. The oil tanker explosion could have been an accident and might not have needed police involvement, but this is Gotham. There’s so much crime in Gotham. Did no one suspect a deliberate attack?

Well, there are no police, but there is a sizable group of people migrating towards him, which is what happens when you fly out of the ocean carrying a sharkmarine. He sees a few newscasters, and winces at the cameras. Feeble justifications that he isn’t violating the spirit of Bruce’s request aside, he hadn’t actually planned to hold still long enough for anyone to get him on film. Heck. He can’t in good conscience leave the sharkmarine pilots here, tied up, the responsibility of a group of civilians, so…

“Hi,” he says to the people who are staring at him. “Can someone call the police? I left my phone in my other tights.”

~x~

There are no casualties from the tanker explosion. With the fires out and the flow of oil stemmed, rescue workers were able to tow the tanker to the docks with the crew still on board. The spill itself isn’t large and is well on its way to being cleaned by the time Clark is able to hand the sharkmarine pilots and the sharkmarine itself over to the police and give his statement. All in all, he’s only in Gotham for an hour. Not bad. Certainly not objectionable. Bruce will understand.

Clark opens the window of his apartment and floats directly to the shower, because there is crude oil _all over him_. He feels like a seabird on an EPA informational pamphlet. He wishes someone would scrub him off and give him a cute knitted sweater.

Wait. Seabirds. Don’t they use dish soap to get the oil off of them?

Clark strips his costume off and leaves it in a gooey pile in the tub while he flies to the kitchen for dish soap. The worst of the oil smell stays with his clothes, since some kind, beautiful people had run back to their homes while he was waiting for the police and brought him towels to clean the crude oil off of his hands and face. He had also tried to clean off his hair, but despite his efforts it’s still completely saturated. He knows because it actually stayed flat even after he was underwater. That is very out of character for his hair.

Clark doesn’t wait for the shower to heat up before drifting over the edge of the tub and kicking his costume out of the way. He’ll look up how best to clean it after he’s washed himself off, but it may be a lost cause. This is a thousand times worse than standing at a gas station. The smell is everywhere. Clark pours a generous blob of dish soap into his hand and starts working it through his hair, gritting his teeth at the slippery sensation. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Skin stinging, he finally turns the shower off after ten minutes of super-speed assisted scrubbing. Clark grabs a towel and dries off while opening a window. The crude oil smell is unbearable, and he’s considering trying to air out the bathroom with super-breath when there’s a knock at the door.

He sprints to answer it, towel held firmly around his waist with one hand. It’s eleven at night. Whoever this is, it must be urgent. Is Lois – is Jimmy – is…

Clark opens the door and blinks at the massive bouquet. The person behind the bouquet says “Clark Kent?”

“Uh,” Clark says, before taking in the person’s uniform. Hayerman’s Florists. The really upscale florist place he stopped a robbery at three and a half weeks ago. It can’t be related, can it? “Yes?”

“Delivery for you,” the person behind the truly, absurdly gargantuan mess of flowers says.

Clark accepts the bouquet, then says, “Do I owe you anything, or…?”

“No, sir,” the delivery person says. “Payment and tip were both taken care of when the order was placed. Have a good night.”

“Have a good night,” Clark says. He closes the door. Stares at the flowers. There’s no bomb, no poison, no nanites, so that rules that out. There is, however, a note. Clark sets the bouquet on the table and extracts the note from the mess of stems. He recognizes yellow carnations and… maybe violets, but he’s not sure about the other two.

The note reads, in an elegant script,

_Work on your listening comprehension._

Clark is used to getting vague, somewhat threatening messages from any number of people. He is not used to them coming attached to astonishingly huge bouquets. He also has a pretty good idea of whom this one came from, though, which is why he grabs his laptop and looks up flower language.

Yellow carnations mean ‘you have disappointed me’.

Violets mean modesty, but blue violets, which are a much closer match in color to the ones in the bouquet, mean watchfulness.

He starts doing image searches for every other kind of flower with an unflattering meaning, and determines that the other flowers in the bouquet are evening primrose, which mean inconstancy, and scarlet geraniums, which mean stupidity.

Clark stares at the bouquet for a while. “You know,” he says to no one in particular, “this is a really tasteful way to say ‘fuck off’.”

He sticks the flowers in a stock pot filled with water, because this is an amazingly enormous bouquet, and puts the stock pot in the bathroom in the hope that it will do something to cut the crude oil smell. Then he bundles his costume into a garbage bag, tucks the garbage bag into several more garbage bags, washes his hands vigorously, gets dressed in his softest sweatpants and flannel shirt, and flies out the window. Forget the internet. If anyone will know how to get crude oil out of his costume, it’s his Pa.

~x~

When Clark finishes telling the whole story, all Ma says before bursting into laughter is “He sent you _flowers_?” Clark can feel his cheeks heat, and before long, he’s glowing with embarrassment. This is why he doesn’t hang out with anyone besides his parents at night. He gets flustered too easily, and ‘why are you glowing’ is not a question he can reasonably answer. Bioluminescing may have been of some benefit on Krypton, but here, it’s just another way he can blow his cover. “Oh, sweetie,” Ma finally gasps out, “is there something you want to tell us?”

“He sent me flowers that mean I’m dumb, break promises, have disappointed him, and that he’s watching me,” Clark repeats, because that part seems pretty important. Pa is very studiously ignoring the two of them and scrubbing dish soap into Clark’s costume in the sink, but Clark can hear the tiny hiccups of suppressed laughter coming from that direction. His parents are traitors.

“But they were flowers. There are plenty of other ways to tell someone that you don’t like them.” Ma considers it for a moment, and then adds, “He could have tweeted you.”

“Batman doesn’t tweet,” Clark says, because he’s not going to reveal Bruce’s secret identity over a weird passive-aggressive bouquet. And he doesn’t think Bruce runs the Bruce Wayne Twitter account anyway. It’s probably his PR department. Some poor intern is sitting at a desk somewhere trying to determine if Bruce Wayne should appear to be hip with the latest memes.

“Batman could tweet. How would you know?”

“I am reasonably sure Batman does not tweet, and even if he did, Superman doesn’t have a Twitter, so he’d have to tweet Clark Kent, and he wouldn’t compromise my identity”

“He could e-mail you,” Ma says.

Clark picks up Fitz, the big black and white cat who’s been begging for attention since Clark started telling the story. Fitz purrs and headbutts Clark in the chin once he gets settled in Clark’s lap. “I don’t think that would be dramatic enough for him,” Clark says, scratching Fitz behind the ear.

“Still. Flowers.”

“Yeah. Flowers.” It is pretty weird. Bruce lives in a strange world of diamond champagne glasses and quintuple-entendres and sending people messages in flower language, but surely he knows that people generally only send flowers to people whom they actually like in some way. Hate bouquets aren’t a thing… usually aren’t a thing, at least. Clark groans and covers his face with his hands. “He’s so weird, Ma.”

“Most people who wear themed costumes are,” Ma says. “You should know.”

He can’t really argue with that.

“Send him a bouquet back,” Pa suggests.

“Batman doesn’t have a public address, either,” Clark says.

“You’re Superman, son. You could send Batman a bouquet if you really wanted to.”

“Well, I don’t want to. I got his message, I’m not going to Gotham again.” He pretends not to see the look his Ma and Pa exchange. Fitz chirps at him.

~x~

He didn’t mean to go to Gotham again. But. Perry’s sending him and Lois to cover a huge conference in Star City, and for some horrible, terrible reason, the flight they’re on has a layover in Gotham, which is not even in the same direction as Star City. Plane routes are terrible.

“You look nervous, Smallville,” Lois says. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing yet,” Clark mutters, trying to make himself even smaller. He hears something in his back creak.

Lois swats him with a rolled-up newspaper, and Clark barely has to exaggerate his flinch. The newspaper doesn’t hurt, but he’s on edge. Jumpy. “This isn’t about Bruce Wayne, is it?”

“What?” Clark says. “Why-” his voice cracks, he swallows and tries to sound less startled. “W-why would it be about Bruce Wayne?”

Lois raises a perfect eyebrow. “If you think that was subtle, Kent, then remind me never to tell you any secrets. You can’t seriously still hold a grudge against him for asking me out.”

“Uh.” He doesn’t. He’s a little frustrated that Bruce is so confident in his disguise that he can sweep into a city, ask out an _investigative reporter_ , and then proceed to run around being Batman without worrying that he’ll be found out, but then, Bruce is human. As long as he keeps the costume hidden, there’s nothing to betray him. And anyway, if Bruce is okay with short relationships and keeping big secrets from the people he dates, that’s his business. Clark doesn’t resent him for that. His romantic frustrations with Lois have nothing to do with Bruce.

Okay. He’s a little resentful, but of the situation, not Bruce. Bruce is a decent guy. A decent, terrifying guy who told him to stay out of Gotham, which is where he is, right now.

Airports don’t count, right? This was out of his control.

“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” Lois says. She sounds disappointed.

Clark shakes his head. “It’s not jealousy, it’s…” Tell as much of the truth as you can. “Mr. Wayne was. Very intimidating. And not a big fan of mine. I keep having this… this paranoid thought that he’ll be mad at me for being in his city.”

Lois laughs. “I doubt you made enough of an impression on him that he checks up on your whereabouts. Relax, Smallville. You want a soda?”

Clark shakes his head again. “I’m good.” He hopes.

~x~

The flowers are waiting in his hotel room. They’ve been there long enough that their smell has permeated the room and starts giving him a headache as soon as he opens the door. Lucky for him Lois has already gotten to her room, or else she might have seen the flowers and asked all sorts of questions he wouldn’t know how to begin answering. Clark sighs heavily and examines the bouquet (just as preposterously colossal as the last one) from across the room.

He recognizes the blue violets.

The rest… he sighs again, closes the door, and digs his laptop out of his bag.

The rest, by his search results, are syringa, which mean disappointment (why he couldn’t have sent yellow carnations again, Clark doesn’t know), and moonwort, which mean forgetfulness (he didn’t forget, he just wasn’t in charge of the travel plans). And irises, which mean, apparently, “I have a message for you.”

The card in the flowers just says,

_10:25, your usual haunt._

It’s currently 9:30, and Clark doesn’t have any usual haunts in Star City. After some thought, he decides to just try the rooftop of the hotel. That’s really the only “usual” place he can think of, besides the sky, which isn’t really an option for Bruce unless he’s planning on running Clark down with the Bat Jet. Bruce wouldn’t do that. That would be a waste of a good jet.

Clark looks at the flowers. There’s nowhere in the room he can put them where the smell won’t bother him, and he’d rather not attract the kind of attention that walking to the nearest dumpster with an absurdly immense bouquet might get him. He could fly out the window and pitch them into the horizon, but that seems like overkill, and also like the kind of thing Bruce would notice. The flowers will have to stay.

In the meantime, he’s going to eat the snacks he packed, see what channels the TV has, and try not to fall asleep. Jet lag. Jet lag is always worse when he flies on airplanes than when he flies solo.

Clark sets an alarm for 10:20.

When it goes off, he’s gone through the half a bag of caramel corn he hadn’t finished on the plane, a chicken salad he’d picked up in Gotham, a package of Enjoy Life chocolate cookies, and all the channels, four times. His nose is also stuffed up from the flowers, which does nothing to mute their scent. Clark is very ready to get this whole thing over with and go to sleep.

He changes into his costume and floats up to the rooftop, unsurprised to find that Bruce is already there and waiting. “Hi,” he says.

Bruce grunts. “You’re early.”

“You too.”

Bruce grunts again. A siren howls seven blocks away. A stray dog roots through a garbage can behind the apartments across the street. Clark crosses and uncrosses his arms, looking at a point between the ears of Batman’s cowl.

“If this is about the airport, it’s not my fault. I didn’t book the flights,” Clark finally says.

“Hrm.”

“I’m sorry. About the airport, and the oil tanker. I promise I don’t intend to disrespect you. You do good work, and you know your city best. Gotham is lucky to have you.”

“Hrm.” Clark is beginning to wonder if that’s all he’s going to get from this conversation. Batman turns, takes a few steps, stops. “Luthor is going to sabotage the drone demonstration tomorrow. I’m letting him.”

Clark doesn’t ask why. He thinks Bruce might expect him to, because there’s a long pause before Bruce starts talking again. “He’s trying for civilian casualties. I won’t let that happen. Do not interfere. Do not be Superman. But pay attention to what goes on, because the more stories run on it, the better.”

The stray dog knocks over another garbage can. Clark takes a measured breath. “I trust you.”

Bruce still doesn’t turn around, but Clark sees him stiffen. Then, with one last “Hrm,” Bruce jumps off the roof.

Clark tracks his descent with x-ray vision. It’s not that he expects Bruce to hit the ground, it’s just a reflex. When he sees Bruce turn his descent into a swing by firing a cable, Clark exhales and zips back to his hotel room. He can probably get rid of the bouquet now.

Or…

it takes him a few tries to figure out how to dry the flowers with heat vision, but once he’s finished, they no longer smell as strongly and he doesn’t have to deal with the question of how to get rid of them without Bruce finding out. He’s not sure if Bruce cares what happens to his hate-bouquets, but he’s not going to risk upsetting him even more.

~x~

The drone disaster is averted through the revelation that the arena where the drones are performing various maneuvers is shielded with a revolutionary new bulletproof glass by WayneTech. The opacity of the glass is adjustable on a scale ranging from black-out curtains to practically invisible, and it doesn’t reflect light in the human visual spectrum. If Clark couldn’t see UV rays, he wouldn’t have known it was there. And no one else knew it was there, so when several of the drones “malfunctioned” and began spitting bullets at the onlookers, there was immediate panic.

He appreciates Bruce’s warning. The whole thing would have been very confusing if he hadn’t known what was going on. As it is, the warning allowed Clark to pull Lois down and duck for cover when the drones began to fire. He made sure that his face displayed the appropriate combination of shock and fear.

The hijacked drones dived at the crowd when it became clear that bullets weren’t working, but by that time the pilots of the unaffected drones had recovered from their surprise. The demonstration turned into a dogfight, and the hijacked drones were outnumbered. They all exploded spectacularly when they were taken down. If Bruce’s intent was to let Luthor’s plan go through so Bruce could find and present evidence that Luthor was behind the hijacking, Clark hopes having the drones semi-intact wasn’t part of the plan.

“Well,” Lois says, tugging at her skirt and straightening her jacket as they’re escorted away from the impromptu presentation on WayneGlass’s many features, “that was exciting.”

Clark nods, fiddling with his clothing in a way that looks like he’s trying to smooth it out but actually makes it more rumpled. The more rattled he looks, the better.

“No, here.” Lois stops beside him and grabs his jacket, patting it flat with brisk, efficient movements. Clark holds very still. “There. Honestly, Kent…”

“Thank you, Lois,” Clark says. Okay. He’ll just have to convey residual shock with his body language and facial expressions.

As Lois strides away, heels clicking, he thinks that maybe that won’t be so difficult.

~x~

The third time he’s in Gotham, he really didn’t plan to be. He’s flying through the clouds on a patrol, and all he hears is the sound of gunfire and children screaming before he flies down to help.

There are six gunmen on one side of the road and three on the other, and there’s a school bus caught in the middle. The wheels of the bus have been shot out. He goes after the guns first – if he wants to move the bus without hurting the occupants, he can’t move that fast, and more bullets will hit the bus in the time it takes him to move it. He doesn’t care about hurting the guns, so he can rush around as fast as he wants, bending barrels and melting ammunition until there’s nothing to shoot with. Then he goes for the people holding the guns. A few pinched nerves and several dozen zipties later, the gunmen are incapacitated and immobile. Now he can see to the bus.

None of the windows are broken. That’s the first thing he notices.

Then he sees the word “Gotham” painted in bold letters on the side, and feels a cold finger of dread slide down his backbone. He wonders what this hate-bouquet will look like. He wonders if Bruce operates on a three-strikes-you’re-out system.

He wonders these things while entering the school bus and calling out “Is everyone okay?” The screaming quiets abruptly.

The bus is only partially full. Most of the bullets that went through the sides of the bus hit empty seats. Two kids were grazed. One kid was hit in the arm, and a quick scan reveals that the bullet is lodged against the bone.

Clark goes for that kid first. “Hey there. I’m here to help, okay?” The kid nods. Their eyes are big and brown and overflowing with tears, but he can tell from the motions of their throat and the way their lips are turning white that they’re trying not to cry in front of him. “I’m going to take you to a hospital. Are you afraid of heights?” The kid starts to shake their head, then begins bawling when the motion jars their arm.

Clark scoops them up as gently as he can. “Can anyone tell me where the nearest hospital is?”

One kid raises their hand and says, with a slight lisp, “Bay Blue Hospital. Intersection of Poe and Oceanside.”

“Thank you,” Clark says. “I want everyone who has a phone to try to call whoever’s taking care of you and tell them what happened, and that if they can, they should drive to Bay Blue Hospital. Then I want you to let anyone who doesn’t have a phone borrow it and do the same. Okay?”

A shaky, uneven chorus of “’kays” rises from the assembled children. He turns to the bus driver. “Call the police, if you haven’t already. I’ll be back soon.” Then he runs down the bus aisle, vaults out the doors and takes off.

The kid feels warm against him. He thinks – hopes – they’ll be okay. He scans the streets for road signs and the buildings for signage as he ascends, and finds Bay Blue Hospital around two miles to the northwest. “Here we go,” he says to the kid, and flies as fast as he dares to the doors of the emergency room. Clark lands a few feet away from the doors, to the great surprise of someone taking a cigarette break nearby, and runs in. “I have a shooting victim!” he bellows, and the emergency room springs to life. “They’re going to take care of you. You’re going to be fine,” he tells the kid as a nurse wheels a stretcher up. He puts the kid down, then announces to the room at large, “There are two more kids who were grazed by bullets, and seven, plus a bus driver, who are uninjured but were just involved in a shoot-out. The gunmen are still at the scene of the crime, so I’m flying all the victims here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before sprinting back out the doors and taking off.

Once he gets all of the injured kids to the hospital, he can fly carrying two at a time without fear of jostling injuries. They cling to him in the air, and some are reluctant to let go when he lands, but they all do so, so well. He’s proud of all of them, and tells them so before he flies back for the bus driver. The bus driver is still sitting behind the wheel, phone in hand, looking out the windshield with a slightly glazed expression. “Mr. Superman,” he says as Clark approaches, “I don’t need a hospital.”

“Shock is nasty,” Clark says, scanning the gunmen. No one’s awake yet. Good. “And even if you’re fine, you’ll be a familiar face for a bunch of kids who are really scared right now.”

The bus driver opens his mouth. Closes it again. Pockets his phone. “So is this, like, a bridal carry or a fireman’s carry thing?” he asks.

Clark grins at him. “I can also do piggyback,” he says.

The bus driver snorts. “I’ll stick with bridal, thanks.”

When Clark sets down with the bus driver, three kids run out the doors. Two attach themselves to Clark’s legs. The other one grabs the bus driver’s hand. Clark is pleased that he judged the situation correctly, that the bus driver is decent enough to the kids that they see him as an adult to be trusted. “Okay, back inside,” Clark says, and takes big, exaggerated steps into Bay Blue. One of the kids on his legs giggles. “Oof, you’re heavy.”

“We’re not heavy,” the giggling kid says. “You’re Superman.”

“You must be super heavy, then. You’re going to grow up to be bigger and stronger than me.” The other kid cracks a smile.

Once he’s back in the waiting room with the rest of the kids, he gently detaches the two from his legs. “I’m going to go wait at the bus until the police get there so the bad guys don’t get away. Once they’re taken care of, I’m going to come right back. Has everyone been able to get in contact with the people taking care of you?” Some nods, some shrugs, a few headshakes. “If you haven’t yet, keep trying. You’re all going to be fine.”

The police arrive promptly. They always do when he’s involved. “We made Superman wait on us” is apparently not a phrase that’s popular with police higher-ups, regardless of individual opinion. He gives a statement, watches the gunmen get loaded into the police cars, and flies back to the hospital.

Clark sits with the kids as their guardians arrive. His chest tightens with each reunion, with the waves of emotions pouring off the guardians. He gets thanked a lot, shakes hands, gets hugged. He tries to be pliant and friendly and not start crying. He also gets requests from the kids who are still waiting to help out with the puzzles a nurse has brought up from somewhere. He likes the puzzles. He learns that the kids were attending a weekend arts program at their school (he wondered why they were in a school bus on a Saturday), and that Layla really wants a kitten and Shawn is going to be a doctor-fireman-helicopter when he grows up. He learns that the bus driver is named Freddie Olman and he’s going to night school but loves his job as a bus driver because he likes kids, but so far the time hasn’t been right to have kids of his own. Clark also meets Freddie’s boyfriend, Kevin, when Kevin shows up to drive Freddie home. The kids have largely calmed down and Kevin and Freddie are both pretty shaken from the incident, so Clark has no problem letting them go. They’ll take care of each other.

The kid with the bullet in their arm, Queenster, gets the bullet extracted and the wound stitched up without complications. The kids with the grazes, Abel and Terry, also get stitched up. Clark goes back to see them, to let them know he’ll be there until their guardians come. Queenster is still out from the anesthesia, but he tells them anyway.

Then Bruce Wayne shows up in the emergency room.

He has several dozen bags of chips and water bottles being carried by very serious-looking bodyguard types. The bodyguards begin distributing chips and water bottles amongst the children, who are delighted, and Clark is starting to think that he must have hit his head sometime and is having a very weird hallucination.

“Superman!” Bruce says. He sounds very different when he’s not in Batman gear. A different timbre, a different emotional range, different pronunciations. Clark noticed it the first time he saw Bruce again after finding out Batman’s identity. It’s very impressive for someone who can’t mimic voices like Clark can. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m so glad you were here to help.”

“Me, too,” Clark says. “Mr. Wayne, is it?” They shake hands.

“Right you are,” Bruce says. “I’m flattered you know me.”

Sure. “That was your company’s glass on the bus, wasn’t it?” Clark asks. He recognized the UV coating. Bruce nods, and Clark says, “It’s good work. There would have been a lot more injuries if the glass hadn’t been bulletproof.”

Bruce shrugs, a motion that is somehow both modest and exaggerated at once. He moves differently as Bruce Wayne than he does as Batman, too. Bruce as Batman moves like he’s built of coiled springs, every movement controlled and purposeful and hinting at frightening power. Bruce as Bruce Wayne moves like he’s made of… gelatin. No, that’s not right. Something undulating and elegant and extravagant. Like some kind of cat… eel… he’ll think of something later. “Please. My company made glass. You captured the gunmen and got everyone medical attention.”

Except there’s no way that the school district had been able to afford WayneGlass for their vehicles, which means Bruce gave it to them. It’s one thing to read about WayneTech’s charity and another to see its tangible results. “We all do good in our own ways,” Clark says.

“Mm.” Bruce turns and begins introducing himself to the remaining kids. There are four left, not counting Queenster and Abel, who are still in the back. Queenster is still asleep, and Abel is way too into the cartoon they’re watching to come join everyone else in the waiting room. It’s a season finale, apparently. Terry went home a while ago.

Bruce talks to the kids very seriously. He treats them like small adults, and they love it. They also love that he brought them snacks. He goes back to see Abel, and Queenster, who wakes up and has an involved conversation with Bruce about how helicopters should be less noisy. Bruce takes notes. He stays as more guardians trickle in and the number of kids dwindle. And then all of a sudden it’s just Bruce and Clark and the bodyguard types.

“Thank you for your help today, Superman,” Bruce says, and sticks his hand out. Clark shakes it and is unsurprised to feel something pressed into his palm. He says goodbye to the emergency room workers, steps out the doors, takes off, and looks at the little slip of paper when he’s too high up to be seen.

The message is written in invisible ink over the top of a pizza coupon. It says,

_Wayne Manor. 8._

Clark burns the coupon. He can’t use it, and he doesn’t want to run the risk that someone could get their hands on it and make things hard for Bruce.

It’s 6. He has time to check on Metropolis and maybe do a few more rounds on his patrol.

~x~

He arrives at Wayne Manor still in the Superman costume. He considered changing into Clark clothes, but decided against it. Given recent events, if someone notices his presence, Superman at Wayne Manor makes more sense than Clark Kent at Wayne Manor. He does try to clean out the worst of the bloodstains and gunsmoke, though. It seems courteous.

He’s greeted at the door of the massive house by a man who introduces himself as Alfred Pennyworth. Alfred Pennyworth has steel-colored hair and an equally steely gaze, and does not seem at all intimidated or awed by Superman on his doorstep. Alfred Pennyworth is not a man with whom to be fucked. Clark’s sure of it.

Mr. Pennyworth leads him to a dining room. There is an ostentatiously gargantuan bouquet on a pedestal behind the table.

Of course.

“Please take a seat,” Mr. Pennyworth says. “Master Bruce will be with you shortly.”

Clark nods.

There are no blue violets in this bouquet. There is, however, white jasmine, which Clark identifies more by smell than sight. He thinks back to the sites he read on the language of flowers.

White jasmine means amiability.

Well. How about that.

He doesn’t know what the rest of the types of flowers are, but one of them looks like thistles, one of them is vibrant yellow in big spur-like bunches like lavender, and one of them reminds him of the inside of a watermelon. It’s a pretty arrangement. He wishes he knew what message Bruce was trying to send with it, besides that Clark’s apparently not totally unwelcome.

Bruce enters, followed by Mr. Pennyworth. Bruce is wearing a different suit than he was when Clark saw him earlier. This one has slimmer lapels, wider legs, and is a soft gray rather than deep blue. He’s also exchanged his cream shirt for a solid black one. Clark wonders if his clothing has secret messages, too. Is there a language of clothes? He feels like that would be overkill.

“Superman,” Bruce says.

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark says cordially. Then he goes silent. How are they going to do this, exactly? Is this Superman and Bruce Wayne? Is this Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne? Is this Batman and Superman? How much should he let on that he knows, and how much will Bruce let on that he knows?

“Alfred is aware of my… hobbies,” Bruce says. “And this room has been swept for bugs. So has the whole house, the grounds, everything. You can speak freely.”

Oh. So that’s how they’re going to do this. Clark considers, for a moment, what exactly he will do with his freedom of speech. Then he says, “I got the white jasmine. What are the rest?”

Bruce circles the table, lays a finger on one of the flowers that reminded Clark of watermelon. “Pomegranate,” he says.

Foolishness. Great. At least it’s a pretty flower.

Bruce touches one of the thistles next. “Burdock,” he says.

Importunity.

… Fair enough.

“And agrimony,” Bruce says.

Oh.

Agrimony means thankfulness.

“What happened today wasn’t an accident,” Bruce says. “It was a deliberate attempt on the life of a child of one of the most prominent activists of the area, staged to look just enough like a turf war that the police wouldn’t ask questions.”

“Oh,” Clark says. He doesn’t know what to say after that.

“Luthor’s drone hijacking,” Bruce continues, walking around the table with his fingers trailing on the wood, “was taking advantage of holes in the defenses of several of the drones’ programming. Luthor intended to test both his hijacking strategy and set his product up as superior. While the hijacking was a success, the holes have been fixed. And LexCorp’s drone performed well, but it was not the best. That honor went to WayneTech’s drone.”

Bruce sits down at the opposite end of the table. “The oil tanker was meant as a distraction. The underwater vehicle,” sharkmarine, Clark mentally corrects, “was going to attack the rescue vessels and draw my attention away from an attempt on the Mayor’s life. Due to your quick response with the tanker, I was able to remain with the Mayor and intervene.”

Clark’s nose itches. He raises his hand and scratches it with a motion too quick for the human eye to see. “Thank you for the explanations.”

Bruce inclines his head. His voice is somewhere between Bruce Wayne and Batman now, but his movements are pure Batman. Clark wonders if this is the version of Bruce that’s truest to who he is, like how who he is when he’s with his parents is the version of himself that’s truest to who he is. If so, he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this honor, but he’s touched. “Care to join me for dinner?” Bruce asks.

Clark bites his lip. “I. Appreciate the offer, but I have… food restrictions.” All things considered, it’s remarkable that his body can digest any earth foods. As it is, some foods are so foreign that his Kryptonian digestive system doesn’t know what to do with them. It’s not fun.

Bruce nods. “You keep kosher. Lois also told me that you’re allergic to dairy, wheat, and grasses, and on the off chance that wasn’t a lie, I had a meal prepared that meets all of those needs. Is that acceptable?”

Clark gets the bubbly feeling he always does when other people respect his restrictions without his direct request. He’s also a little confused, because he knows that Lois didn’t tell Bruce that Superman has food allergies, because no one knows that Superman has food allergies. He’s not sure why Lois and Bruce were discussing Clark Kent’s dietary restrictions, but… well, it worked out well for him, so he won’t complain. He’ll just live with his confusion. “Thank you,” Clark says. “I’d love to stay for dinner.”

Dinner is some kind of vegetable soup, half an herb-brushed roast chicken for each of them, black rice, roast asparagus and zucchini, and a fruit salad. The portions are incredibly generous, and the food is delicious. Bruce doesn’t talk much during the meal, and Clark’s half-amused, half-impressed to see how fast he eats. The caloric requirements of being Batman must be similar to the caloric requirements of being Superman.

The one problem with the whole affair is that his nose and his eyes are getting progressively itchier, and he feels a headache building. He’s allergic to something in the room, and Clark suspects one of the flowers. Can’t be the white jasmine, he’s been around bushes of the stuff with no problem. One of the new ones.

He tries to keep his sniffles to a minimum and only rubs his eyes and nose at invisible superspeed. Bruce has clearly gone to lengths to make him comfortable, and he is going to be polite. The bouquet is also really pretty, and he’d kind of like to take it home and preserve it forever as a memento of the time when Bruce decided he was tolerable. It’s a big step. Clark gets the feeling that being considered tolerable by Bruce Wayne is a rare honor. And Bruce probably won’t let him take the bouquet home if he finds out Clark’s allergic to it.

Mr. Pennyworth hovers watchfully by the door when he’s not taking empty dishes or bringing new ones. It’s a little unsettling. Clark feels weird when he’s served at restaurants. Being served in a house, by someone who doesn’t sit down and eat with them, is even weirder. But he gets the feeling that Mr. Pennyworth is more to Bruce than the help – Mr. Pennyworth knows Bruce is Batman, after all – and Clark’s not one to make value judgments without more information. So that’s odd, but not really a problem.

When the fruit salad dishes are cleared away, Clark finally addresses something he’s been wondering all evening. “Between the flowers and the dinner invitation, Mr. Wayne, I might start to think you’re romancing me.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “All three of my bouquets have insulted your reasoning abilities.”

“But they were bouquets,” Clark argues. “You could call me dumb with something other than flowers, if you wanted to.” He sounds like his Ma. But his Ma had a point.

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” Bruce deadpans. “As for dinner, from the reports of the children, you were moving at incredible speeds. You also exerted a significant amount of force on the guns, as well as utilizing heat vision. Then you carried ten children and one adult to Bay Blue Hospital, in addition to whatever you were doing before and after that incident. I could let you go home and eat fifteen jars of peanut butter to make up for the calorie expenditure, but that seemed discourteous. You saved lives, even after I told you not to come here. That deserves a meal, at the very least.”

“Well, I didn’t realize I was in Gotham today until I saw the side of the school bus,” Clark says, just to be difficult. “It was cloudy.”

“Would you have ignored the situation if you had known it was taking place in Gotham?” Bruce asks.

“No.”

“Well. There you have it.” Bruce stands. “I would like to retract my request that you stay out of Gotham, with some caveats. Do not come here looking for trouble. Do not engage in long campaigns here. Contact me if there’s a situation you don’t know how to handle. Understood?”

“Understood,” Clark says. Then, “Can I keep the bouquet?”

Bruce’s upper lip twitches, a microexpression that was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. “I have no attachment to it.”

Clark collects the monumentally vast bouquet. Now that it’s up close, he can feel his nose start running in earnest, but he still wants to keep it. The bigger issue is that he’s not sure how he’s going to fly without destroying the flowers. Maybe he can fly backwards, with his body shielding most of the wind?

“I’ll have Alfred wrap it so you don’t denude it on the way back,” Bruce says. Mr. Pennyworth appears and takes the bouquet from Clark’s hands, and Clark indulges in a session of super-speed scratching. It’s going to be worth it. He is going to keep this begrudging acceptance bouquet forever, allergies be damned. He is going to put it next to the dried flowers he saved from the hotel in Star City and the pressed flowers he made from the first bouquet, a floral timeline of Bruce’s regard.

It occurs to him that he’s alone with Bruce, and that it’s silent. Clark shifts. Is he supposed to say something?

“I’ll contact you if any situations develop that would benefit from your involvement,” Bruce says.

Bruce is saying they might work together. Bruce, master of detachment. Bruce, sender of fuck off bouquets. That Bruce. Maybe Clark really did hit his head earlier.

“Will you contact me with flowers?” Clark asks, because snark is the last refuge of the damned and monumentally confused.

Bruce’s lip twitches again. “If the situation calls for it.”

Mr. Pennyworth returns with the bouquet. It’s been so heavily wrapped that being near it doesn’t make Clark feel like he’ll start developing hives any second, which is a marked improvement. His nose still itches, though, and he thinks his eyes may be swelling up. It’s worth it. It’s so worth it. “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Wayne.”

“Thank you for your actions today, Superman,” Bruce says. Clark nods. Mr. Pennyworth escorts him to the door, and Clark takes off.

He has to pause near the New Jersey border to have a sneezing fit and a thorough scratching session, but it’s still worth it.


End file.
